While Cory's table buzzed with corporate metaphors and Kathie's group dissected literary themes, a different kind of meeting was in session at a corner table in the cafeteria, tucked away from the main thoroughfares. This was the territory of Jace and his crew, and the atmosphere was several degrees cooler.
Jace took a slow drag from a vape pen, the sweet smoke curling into the air before being swallowed by the cafeteria's greasy haze. His eyes, flat and observant, were fixed on the same pillar that held Cory's attention. His crew, two other guys with the same worn sneakers and watchful stillness, followed his gaze.
"Morris is gonna pop a blood vessel," one of them, a guy named Rico with a scar bisecting his eyebrow, muttered without looking away. "Look at him. Practically vibrating."
"Morris is a clown," Jace said, his voice a low, unhurried rasp. He exhaled slowly. "He's not the interesting part."
The other guy, a quiet, solid block of muscle named Dom, grunted. "The new kid is."
Jace gave a single, slight nod. His analysis wasn't about potential or assets. It was about threats and stability. "Kid's got size on him. Real size. Not gym-size. The kind you get from doing work." Jace himself was built from brawls and enforcing collections; he recognized a similar, though rawer, physicality in Kiel. The height was an advantage, but it was the density in the kid's shoulders, the way he held himself, like he was rooted to the ground, that Jace noted. It was a problem if it ever came to shoving.
"Heard he shut Morris down cold this morning without throwing a punch," Rico offered, a flicker of respect in his tone. "Just stood there. Took the wind right out of his sails."
"That takes more guts than swinging," Dom conceded, cracking his knuckles. "Stupid, but guts."
Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Rouxin sit across from Kiel. "That's not guts. That's something else." He tapped the ash from his vape. "You don't walk into that if you're just a tough kid. You either have a death wish, or you have a reason not to be scared of Salvatore Vitello." He let that hang in the air. "And guys built like that don't usually have death wishes."
"You think he's connected?" Rico asked, his voice dropping.
"I don't know what he is," Jace admitted, and that admission itself was significant. "He's not one of ours. He's not a Viper, Morris would be kissing his ass, not trying to punk him. And he doesn't carry himself like some rich kid from Cory's world."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze intensifying.
"My brother says the streets are tense. Says there's talk. A ghost from the old days." Jace wasn't being metaphorical; he was repeating underworld gossip. "The Nunca-Caer name is being whispered again. Nobody knows why. Just whispers."
Dom and Rico went very still. This was no longer schoolyard politics.
"You think this kid…?" Rico trailed off, the idea too absurd to finish.
"I think when the ground starts shaking, you pay attention to new cracks," Jace said flatly. "He's a crack. He doesn't fit. He's too calm. Too strong. And now he's drawing the attention of a Viper princess." He finally looked away from Kiel and directly at his crew. "Cory will try to recruit him. Morris will try to break him. We," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument, "will find out what he is. If he's just a kid with a death wish, we leave him to the wolves. If he's connected to those whispers… then he's either the biggest problem to walk these halls, or the biggest opportunity."
He took one last, long drag, killing the vape.
"For now, he's a question mark. And in our business, question marks get people killed. We find the answer before anyone else does." His plan wasn't about recruitment or intimidation. It was about intelligence. It was the most dangerous approach of all.
—
While Cory calculated and Jace analyzed, the reaction at Morris's table was a chemical fire, all heat, light, and toxic smoke. They were crammed around a table too small for them, a nest of black and gold jerseys and simmering resentment.
Morris wasn't just watching the scene by the pillar; he was being physically corroded by it. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table. A half-eaten slice of pizza sat forgotten on his tray, the grease congealing.
"Are you seeing this?" he hissed, not to anyone in particular, but to the universe that had dared to offend him. His voice was a low, venomous thing, trembling with the effort to keep it from exploding. "Are you seeing this?"
"Yeah, man, he's sitting with her," one of his lackeys, a skittish kid named Leo, stated the obvious.
Morris's head snapped toward him so fast his gelled hair barely moved. "No shit he's sitting with her!" he spat, his voice rising a dangerous octave. Several people at nearby tables flinched and looked away. "I've been trying to get a word with Rouxin for a year! A year! I hold doors, I make sure my boys don't hassle her… I've done everything right! And this… this nobody." He practically snarled the word, jabbing a finger in Kiel's direction. "This quiet, freakish nobody just waltzes in on day one and gets what I've been working for?"
Another wannabe, a bulky kid named Ricky, tried to sound tough. "So we lean on him. After school. We show him…"
"We show him what?" Morris exploded, slamming his palm down on the table. The tray jumped, and his plastic fork clattered to the floor. The entire section of the cafeteria went quiet for a moment before nervously resuming their conversations. He leaned in, his face inches from Ricky's, spittle flying from his lips. "You see the size of him? You see the way he stands? He's not some scrawny freshman we can shake down for lunch money. He's built like a brick wall!"
This was the core of his fury, the terrifying intersection of desire and humiliation, all underscored by a thread of genuine, primal fear. He was afraid of Kiel, and he hated himself for it, and he hated Kiel a thousand times more for making him feel it.
"He's just tall," Leo offered weakly, trying to de-escalate.
"It's not the height, you idiot! It's… it's the…" Morris flailed for the words, his hand chopping the air. "It's in his eyes! He looked at me this morning like I was nothing. Not a threat, not a rival… like I was a stain on the floor he didn't want to step in." The memory was a fresh brand on his ego. "And now he's sitting there, with her, probably telling her how I tried to punk him and failed. He's making me look weak!"
His breathing was ragged. He could feel the eyes of the cafeteria on him, not with respect, but with pity and amusement. He was becoming a spectacle, the jester whose crown was slipping.
"This can't stand," he muttered, his voice dropping back into a guttural whisper. He glared at the pillar, his eyes burning with a promise of violence. "He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to come into my school, disrespect me, and then take what's mine."
"What are you gonna do, man?" Ricky asked, a little nervously.
A nasty, brittle smile split Morris's face. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not gonna do anything stupid. Not in the open. But everyone has a weakness. Everyone has a price. We find his. We find what he cares about, and we break it in front of him." He leaned back, crossing his arms, the picture of petulant, seething vengeance. "He wants to play with the big dogs? Fine. Let's see how long he lasts when he's bleeding in the dark and nobody can hear him scream."